A quarter of a century after Marilyn's death, Madonna was perfecting her Monroe look. Now it's half a century, and Britney Spears is recreating the skirt-blowing scene. The fascination that inspired Warhol's postage-stamp portraiture and Elton John's outpourings retains its grip. There's a flood of books – 600 plus, many of them weighty academic tomes dedicated to the original dumb blonde. The obsession of the cerebral with the celebrity reaches back to her own life, as is affirmed by a new film, My Week With Marilyn: it recounts the condescension of Laurence Olivier and her husband Arthur Miller. So why the fascination with a life that, for all the diversions through tinsel town, stretched from miserable foster homes to barbiturate overdose? There were the looks, of course, and a few performances you can't argue with – Gentleman Prefer Blondes and Some Like it Hot. But more than anything, it's the character thing. Like Dolly Parton, she was brilliant at playing up the things she was patronised for, and had quick wit in a corner ("It's not true I had nothing on, I had the radio on"). She instinctively grasped the troubling connection between being sexy and being vulnerable, and kept herself centre stage even as she lost control. She was belittled as childlike, but it's worth recalling that this can mean straightforward too. While PR men fretted over nude photos from the star's past, Monroe said that she'd needed the money to pay the rent. For all the artifice, a glimmer of integrity shone through.